


Landlocked

by aderyn



Series: Deep Map [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: birth stories & geography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:03:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s easy, sometimes,  to see Sherlock as a landlocked country, not England at all, not an island, but a wild rocky country far from the sea…</p>
<p>Still, at some point, some hopefully sober point , John takes the lay and thinks Jesus Christ I’ll never love anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landlocked

 

It’s easy, sometimes, to see Sherlock as a landlocked country, not England at all, not an island, but a wild rocky country far from the sea, where the passes are impassable and the diphthongs impossible.

Still,at some point, some hopefully sober point, John takes the lay and thinks Jesus Christ I’ll never love anyone else.  It’s not exactly a revelation, even to him, but the “never”  is new, is maybe a bit difficult, because how long does that imply and what, and well, will it be long enough, and how many times will he have to stop, panting, and what cairns will he pass; what strange words will he have to learn, in order to shift, by will or barter or invocation, all those damned stones.  And will he die trying.

Sherlock is off, now, to the Caucasus, practicing his inland diction on an art thief.

*******

John’s ancestors come down out of the highlands, out the high tarns with their crest and their tartan, came down to the valleys with one single purpose, to serve, crossing where they had to, picking their way to the salt-studded shores.

Sherlock materialized in a ring of stones, shrugged his new shoulders, mouthed “dull,” and stalked off to the cities. He formed out of the greenschist, formed out of the bird carvings of the Jura, leapt up and flew cross-Channel crying _oh Londinium, you monks of Britain, a Holmes has come to the sea._

Or, you know, he was born.

 

 


End file.
